One Winged Man

An older poem collecting dust. I have about fifty of them. Expect more in the future. Need to clean out my closet before I can make it to the bedroom.

Fragile like glass, not made to outlast

Just like you view me

The one winged angel

And see right through me

 But I will prevail until they hear my tainted tale like a lucid effigy of pain

Explode lowliness and spray a love-hatred mixed grenade of insane loneliness

Solitude a road for only us to die for; pry it from my cold dead mind before your ignorant stance can stand until you can be damned to understand my side of the story

A beating heart that only rises and pulses alive to stray from the lies of the hopeful

Alone alongside the pillaged bones of the realigned loathful, I cannot go back home to that world of gold, those shining notes, that open book, can’t take a last look, or listen to the majestic lost moving music I’d once known across my breathing chest heaving disease ridden unforgiven coffin, oblivion is the land I’m living in

When life had shown spine intertwined between the diamond divided lines of my silver soul, it stole from me, took my greed and left me like a fallen leaf descends from a passing tree, rotting in the awesome blossoming breeze, forgotten is the sanctuary like the musical immaterial foolery of a revolutionary dream

My sliver of an oath, serene, the present’s being chokes the wrinkled throat of the past, taking the breath of life from the ancient’s a price that cannot be repaid, damage that cannot be remade, amassing a future of the ashes of the losers buried magic like a prize, a dowry for the inhuman eyes of the suitor, while the old world’s neutered, in all its stone cold beauty, in the abusive narrative of a carcass disembodied disembarking into pitch black darkness, with an empty faded degraded maelstrom of a failures heartbeat

Marching into the afterlife

Harping right through the sanity of our enemy

The engine, the ego dead spent of its energy, nothing but an effigy

Pretend we could rebuild, pretend we weren’t killed

Could you call emptiness filled, could humanity re-emerge from the verge of death fulfilled

Only the one winged angel knows, and as the hatred grows, will that man ever fly again?

Rending the ending without hope

Just like you view him

See right through him

And find only his solitude knew him

The one-winged angel, aged, beaten, frail

There is no fable who can save him, no avail

Waiting in haven for the flocks of ravens, death's salvation

Broken like his nation, frozen like his world, dishonoured, forsaken, cold

Attacked and nailed to the black sacrament, a sacrifice for the bright

So they may call their monarch’s evangelical light to spite the heavens, and render them asunder

Luminescent crescent moon looming all-consuming blooming in movement of the Jupiter’s thunder

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.